


(you should see me in a) crown

by krystallisert



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M, Love Triangles, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-11 06:05:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15966248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krystallisert/pseuds/krystallisert
Summary: That’s Ushijima, someone whispers. A shudder follows. Everyone, even in a place as remote, as detached from the hustle and bustle of the cities as this, knows of Ushijima Wakatoshi; head knight of the Royal Guard. For the majority of the inhabitants of the rural, far away town this is as close to the crown they’ll ever be. For all intents and purposes, it’s pretty close, too; everyone knows that no one sticks as close to the throne as the esteemed knight.





	(you should see me in a) crown

**Author's Note:**

> a thousand thank yous to [oz](https://owlespresso.tumblr.com) for all the input and the effort in making my stumble-y sentences look good!! you're a gem!!

He rides into town on a scalding hot afternoon. Summer has been relentless, sunbeams whipping at skin and leaving bright, red burns in their wake. Just outside the village, there’s a field of crops; tall bodies of corn with heads hanging low, brown and bleak in color. A child stops in its tracks, eyes wide and disbelieving at the state of the stranger. He must be quite the sight, clad in a suit of armor that looks entirely too hot and well-kept in a way that undeniably speaks of high birth.

The child might not know much about social ranks or politics, far too occupied with surviving to care for such trivial matters, but even he can tell this; the riding stranger must be from inside the gates.

Within the gates, in the Capital, it’s reaping season; trees hanging low, burdened by fruits not yet plucked and grass vibrant and green in color. The inhabitants of the village know this only by tales told by travelers and merchants, but it seems like a possibility; a probability, even. In the distance, one can see dark clouds bringing cold rain with them. No such luck for the villagers of the outer cities; plagued by drought, by famine, by an onslaught of illnesses that cannot be anything but a curse.

Curious, then, that someone would venture outside. Judging by the gleam of the stranger’s armor, he’s recently been in a storm. His hair is ruffled, brown locks flopping with every movement made by his ride, complexion clear and free of the dryness of neverending sunlight. It’s almost ridiculous, really, how clearly _other_ the man is as he enters, how he stands out, like some sort of beacon among the filthy browns of a town that has never known the rich blues and greens of the Capital.

A imposing figure, to be sure; tabard in shades of royal purple and a sheathed blade dangling at his hip. Even the horse feels ominous in its dark brownish coat and official attire, a low sort of hum of wealth and riches following its slow, careful steps. There’s something in the blank gaze of the knight, something in the neutral curl of his mouth. It makes his onlookers feel almost as if he’s looking right past them; almost like they’re not there at all.

Perhaps he’s trying to block it out, the reality of what life looks like outside the gates. Surely someone with such a privileged upbringing as him would have been shielded from the poverty and the struggles of the outlying towns and villages. The crest on his shoulder suggests regality, the shape of his nose and sharpness of his jaw speaking — loudly — of nobility. But the blankness of his stare feels like something else; feels nothing like denial or guilt.

In truth, the knight just seems not to care. The villagers of this town he’s entered might as well be ghosts to this man, mere ants underneath the dark brown of his boot.

 _That’s Ushijima_ , someone whispers. A shudder follows. Everyone, even in a place as remote, as detached from the hustle and bustle of the cities as this, knows of Ushijima Wakatoshi; head knight of the Royal Guard. For the majority of the inhabitants of the rural, far away town this is as close to the crown they’ll ever be. For all intents and purposes, it’s pretty close, too; everyone knows that no one sticks as close to the throne as the esteemed knight.

Which begs the question— _what is he doing here?_ No retainers, no backup, no entourage. Seeing knights this far out from the mainland is rare enough, seeing _one_ knight — _the_ knight, as the case may be — a once in a lifetime experience at best. A miracle, or perhaps an ill omen. Women hold onto their children, pull them out of the way when Ushijima passes. Men move in front of their wives as if to protect them from the royal guard. As if, in this town where the stench of poverty has become the norm and illness more common than health, the pristine, beautiful man is some sort of God of Death.

If the rumors about him are true, the assessment might not be so far off. His simple armor might be spotless now, blade tucked away more as a promise than a threat, but that does little to silence the fearful whisper of Ushijima Wakatoshi’s accomplishments; summing of his acts during the war.

But if Ushijima notices the stares or hears the whispers, he does not let on. He keeps a stony expression, brows knit together with the sting of the sun, fists curled around the reins of his horse. Certainly, the man looks like he knows where he’s going. His pace is slow, but confident and the villagers can do nothing but move out of his way, the crowd parting as he makes his way further into the village.

A man on a mission. In a place like this, that’s rarely a good thing.

 

——

 

At the breathless half-yell of your name, you look up from your hunched over position, attention pulled away from the plot of dirt at your feet. Just as well, you muse, feeling the crumbly dryness of dirt underneath your palm. Nothing’s going to grow there anyways, no matter how hard you try to nurture the pathetic saplings struggling against barren land.

The soft edges of Sugawara’s smooth lines greet you once your focus is fully shifted from the death ground below you, his brow arched with exhaustion and his nails dirtied with manual labor. The rapid rise and fall of his chest suggests that he’s been running, his forehead shimmering with sweat. The quiet sort of urgency that seems to tug at his mouth makes unease rise in your stomach, vines of worry constricting and squeezing at your chest.

“Sugawara,” you mutter, pulling yourself up and dusting dirt off your knees. There are blisters at your palms; small, aching bulges of irritated flesh and dead skin, but you’re long since used to the sensation. Tiny rocks and pebbles try to pierce the calloused skin at your bare feet. Just another day, you tell yourself. You drag the back of your hand across your forehead. “Is something wrong?”

The taller boy seems to consider for a moment, seemingly taking in your appearance. He himself looks windswept, off-kilter; as if he’s seen something unexpected, incomprehensible. Sugawara always looks sort of pale, sort of transparent; a fact not helped by the silvery gray tinge of his messy hair, but as you squint against the sunlight to get a better look at him, there’s a kind of green, sickly hue to his skin, a hint of a grimace twitching at his mouth.

Of course, there’s the possibility that Sugawara is merely feeling ill; another round of a violent, unnamed illness fleeting among the more disposed members of the village yet again. His light tremble and slightly pained expression could, in fact, just come from the beginnings of a migraine or a stomach ache. But—

“Koushi?”

He blinks, pulls himself out of whatever train of thought he must have gotten lost in. He repeats your name in a low murmur, as if to remind himself of where he is and what he came for, drags a hand through his hair. And then— “A royal guard is here.”

For a moment, there is only silence following his statement. You entertain, for a second, the possibility that the guard has come to your village for something — someone — else. You try to ignore the fact that no one of note ever even ventures outside the gates unless absolutely necessary and you pretend that you can convince yourself that if you just ignore it, the faceless royal guard will ride past and nothing will change. Sugawara ruins it by adding;  
“It’s Ushijima.”

 

——

 

Your fingers thrum against the dry wood of your table, the sound bouncing between cracked walls and dusty floors. Sugawara eyes you carefully, as if worried you might have a complete breakdown if he so much as looks away for a moment. His gaze feels like a heavy, tangible thing, weighing down on your shoulders and making it harder to think.

When he opens his mouth, you’re not surprised by the words that slip from between his lips. “There’s still time,” his voice is impossibly soft, fingers twitching against the flat of the table, not far away from your own idle hand. “We can—” he hesitates, diverts his eyes. “You can leave. Hide.”

You exhale; a slow and audible sound exiting your nose as you stare him down. “Come on,” you mutter, gingerly placing your chin in the palm of your hand. Your back aches with hours of labor as you hunch it over, but it’s a familiar sort of ache, and you can’t even find it in you to react to it. “From some dimwit guard, sure. But from _Ushijima?_ You don’t believe that.”

The look on Sugawara’s face tells you you’re right; a painful sort of grimace taking hold of his delicate features.

“Besides,” you go on, tracing a finger along the lines of your table, desperate for something to focus on. “We don’t know why he’s here. Might not have anything to do with me at all.”

“I’d believe that if it were just some random knight,” Sugawara counters. “But your sister’s personal lapdog?”

You grimace, acutely aware of Sugawara’s mothering tone and the way his fingers inch towards yours. A part of you always knew that things would never be as easy as fleeing the gates and live out your life peacefully in an impoverished nation. The look on your companion’s face tells you he’s thinking something along the same lines.

“Well, she did get engaged recently,” an image flashes in the back of your mind, one of flourishes of texts and loud announcements. People care very little of the matters of the noble when their crops are dying and their resources are disappearing; even so everyone in the village knows about the royal engagement. Something about nations uniting and differences finally being set aside. Something about true love despite old rivalries. It had sounded a lot like propaganda, but you suppose the charming — if not notorious — noble Oikawa Tooru is not the worst match for your sister, real love or not. “Maybe it’s a wedding invitation.”

Sugawara’s mouth twitches, a humorless chuckle falling out of his mouth. There’s something bitter to it, something nameless. “Or maybe she’s finally decided to rid herself of the competition.”

You hate when he refers to you like this; like some actual threat to the throne. It’s always tinged in this strange tone, in something almost accusatory. As if he’s waiting for you to turn your back on your lifestyle and return to the castle, tail between your legs. Your jaw tightens with something between annoyance and disappointment, but you choose to ignore the underlying, subtle jab he’s throwing at you, instead leaning into his faux jovial tone and curling your own mouth into a sardonic, lifeless sort of smile on your own.

There’s a muffled sound of a whinny outside your door, the clank of metal and something heavy against the ground. You exhale. Sugawara’s fingertips graze your knuckles. You retract your hand, lean back in your chair.

“I guess we’re about to find out.”

Sugawara’s eyes narrow, his usually soft and gentle face twisted into something sharp and defensive. You pay it no mind, instead pushing yourself to your feet and making your way over to your flimsy excuse of a door to let open the door for your visitor.

He barely gets the time to knock against the wood before you rip the door open.

It’s been years since the last time you saw Ushijima Wakatoshi, but you suppose; the more things change, the more they stay the same. He looks like a copy of a memory, identical to the last time you saw him. Impossibly large, annoyingly stoic, undeniably regal. He reminds you, in an instant, of everything you ever left behind; the shimmer of his armor painful to your light sensitive eyes and the smoothness of his skin enough to make you cower. You’re suddenly embarrassingly aware of the knots in your hair, the holes and stitches in your clothing. His face, more than anything else, is an exact replica of the one he wore the night you abdicated the throne.

You falter, but only for a moment. Ushijima opens his mouth, and you’re immediately reminded of where you are, of your blatant differences. His voice is low, monotone, but still heavy with importance. Ushijima always had that sort of quality, even when you where children; always spoke like he had the burdens of the entire world on top of his shoulders. He addresses you, not by name but by a long forgotten, discarded title;

“Your majesty,” he says, and behind you, Sugawara gags theatrically. If Ushijima’s appearance in the village was an ill omen, the way his nose scrunches and his mouth twists around the title is like a tornado visible in the distance. For all his stoicism and his reputation as a calm, collected and respectful man, Ushijima Wakatoshi never quite learned how to master the art of empty flattery. Not much of a poker face. It might have been a good thing he chose to pursue knighthood rather than nobility.

The large knight says nothing else, merely stands in the door opening with an expectant glint in his eyes, clearly waiting for an invitation. You sigh, moving out of the way with more than a fair amount of reluctance.

“Careful,” you mutter, swinging the wooden door open with the creak of rusty metal. “Don’t want to knock your _big head_ against the door frame.” Ushijima doesn’t respond to that, but his gaze flickers to the sizable distance between the top of his head and the frame of your door. To your immense, childish pleasure, the knight does bow his head when he enters. A small victory, but it tugs at the edges of your lips nonetheless.

When you turn back to look at Sugawara, still seated in one of the two only chairs at the kitchen table, the hesitance in his body language is blatant. Sure, the silver haired man talks a big game, criticizes the royal guard and family relentlessly, but he doesn’t seem to have taken into account the actual weight of Ushijima’s enormous presence.

The broad brunet stares the other man down, as if assessing him. The clear suspicion in the curve of his brows reminds you — vividly — of cold banquet halls and smiles with double meanings. Sugawara swallows, straightening his posture.

“Sugawara,” you cross your arms over your chest, fingernails digging into the flesh of your arms. You can’t really decide if you’d prefer for your friend to be present or not for whatever trouble Ushijima is bringing your way. Ideally you’d like for the knight to just disappear all together. Somehow that doesn’t seem like an option. “You should go home.”

Sugawara’s brows furrow, mouth pulled down in a frown. His gaze is shifty, uncertain as it flashes between you and the big knight still standing by the door. Had Ushijima had it in him to feel anything but disgruntled, he probably would’ve felt awkward. “But—”

Ushijima clears his throat and Sugawara’s mouth snaps shut. The corner of his lips twitches, but he pushes himself to his feet. Disappointment shines in his eyes when he walks past you, a sharp reminder of the immediate effect of royalty in the midst of a neglected society. Guilt tickles your spine. You remind yourself to offer your friend some of the coffee you’ve tucked away in the back of your cabinet later.

“So,” you gesture towards the now empty chair by your humble kitchen corner, only mildly miffed when the giant brute of a man opts to stay standing in the middle of the room. “Suit yourself,” you mutter, taking a seat yourself and leaning back in the chair. The wood complains against the weight, an impressive feat in and of itself, considering the sizes of rations the last few months. “What brings my sister’s favorite tin man all the way out of the Capital?”

Ushijima looks like he takes offense, his eyes narrowing into slits, expression somehow stonier than his already incredibly stony neutral one. It’s not like he’s got much room for objections; standing in in a house that seems to sway with every howl of the wind, suit of metal and soft, expensive fabric shining almost blindingly when the sunbeams hit it just the right way, Ushijima looks more like a statue than anything else. Like some sort of Demigod or conqueror, the sight of him makes your skin crawl.

He’s never been an eloquent talker. A smart man, sure, but one who stumbles over poorly thought out statements and too bluntly given opinions. Not timid by any stretch of the imagination, but clumsy, in a way that seems far more offensive combined with his cold exterior. Unacceptable for court, barely passable for a knight. He’s more guarded now, more composed, but you still see the tension of a tongue that threatens to speak out of turn. So you’re not surprised when the knight hesitates, though you are unsettled by the almost unnoticeable softening of his features. The last time you saw his face like that — years and decades and lifetimes ago, it seems — it had sent shivers down your spine. He’d been younger, then; nothing but a lowly squire. A softer, smaller boy, playmate more than a protector. You’d been smaller still, impossibly tiny, still wearing your prison in form of a jeweled, shimmering headpiece.

Suddenly, you’re reminded of the smell of incense. Of dark linens and medium rare steaks and of black silk. Small, flat coins gently placed on top of closed eyelids, a hollow sort of weeping that felt like it would never stop; echoing, bouncing, multiplying through hallways and dark rooms. Back then, you’d been terrified. Clad in your stuffy, black dress, seated at the front of the cathedral and surrounded by grief all you could feel was fear. The death of a king meant only one thing, as far as you were concerned; it meant that your life was over.

That was the cruelty of regality. No room to mourn a dead father when you were busy mourning yourself.

You remember your sister’s sweaty palm on top of the back of your hand. A sympathetic gesture, you’d thought at the time. Belatedly, you’d realized that more than that, she was thankful; grateful for your impatience at birth leading to your claim to the throne. It’s this particular memory that sticks to the forefront of your mind when you again open your mouth.

“She’s dead, isn’t she?”

Ushijima can’t seem to meet your eyes, an anomaly in the usual demeanor of a man you’ve known to persevere even through the most uncomfortable of silences. It’s as good a confirmation than anything else. You inhale, feel your body sort of slump against itself. “What happened?”

“Illness,” Ushijima answers, and his vague way of answering does not escape you. You suppose, in a way, he must be more affected by the death than you; this tall mountain of a man whose only duty for the last decade has been to protect the crown. Strangely, you yourself feel very little. Perhaps you’ve already grown too estranged, too bitter towards the riches and ignorance of the Capital. Perhaps you’ve grown too used to death.

In any case, your only response to the death of your sibling is a sigh, contents of your stomach swirling around as you lean forward. “And here I thought you were coming along as some extravagant wedding invitation,” you mutter, voice somehow lacking the tinge of humor you were going for. “But I suppose it’s fitting for your reputation you’re coming with words of a funeral instead.”

Ushijima frowns, brows furrowed and tight above his eyes. “That’s not why I’m here.”

Outside, the heat rolls along the surface of your village in waves; visible in transparent lines in the air. Still, you feel cold, as if all your blood has frozen in your body. You’re not sure if Ushijima’s aversion to small talk and pleasantries is a blessing or a curse. “Of course it’s not.”

Your abdication came with a string of conditions and a stack of paperwork. Most of the finer details are long forgotten — repressed, perhaps — but some of them might as well have been tattooed to the inside of your skull. There was this one point in particular that you argued relentlessly, that ultimately stayed despite your efforts.

 _In the event of a death, or if the Capitol stands without a ruler—_ “You’re here to take me back, then.”

Ushijima nods. You feel compelled to punch him in the face, ‘don’t shoot the messenger’ be damned. “Yes,” he adds, in case the nod was not enough of a confirmation. “Your majesty.” The title feels like a rope around your neck and for a fleeting, thankful moment you imagine refusing. Saying fuck you to the contracts and goodbye to responsibilities. Telling Ushijima that he’ll have to look for a ruler somewhere else. You wonder how the Capital, technologically advanced and brimming with wealth as it is, would fare without the royal family. How the nobles and the court would fight for power.

A tantalizing thought, but you’re not an idiot. You might have been away for a long time, but you have not forgotten the viciousness of the court. God only knows what they’ll do to your already disadvantaged village if you refuse to leave. “Is there no one else?” You ask, ignoring the futility of your own, quiet voice.

“You’re all that’s left.”

So, you’ll go. You suppose you knew as much as soon as Ushijima told you about your sister, bitter as that thought is.

That doesn’t mean you won’t take advantage. You exhale. Ushijima looks unchanged, face still completely devoid of any emotion.

“A cart of food and resources will be sent to this town every month,” you tell the knight, the creak of wood as you get up from your chair a welcome sort of sound now that you know you won’t hear it again. The feel of splinters and small scars create small bumps as you drag your fingertips along the table. “I need doctors and guards stationed here. There’s been a lot of illness lately. Scavengers.”

Ushijima’s mouth twitches into something that on anyone else you would have accepted as a smile. “You haven’t changed as much as I thought,” he tells you, and because of the dull monotone of his voice, you’re not entirely sure if it’s an insult or a compliment. “Is that all?”

You consider. _Is_ that all? Is that all you can bargain for in exchange for your freedom. You glance down at your filthy, scabbed feet. At the brown, coarse garments of your clothes. You can practically feel the corset tightening around your waist. The concept, the thought of being surrounded by nothing but Ushijima’s lack of personality and the thick smells of perfume and ignorance makes you want to scream.

An idea comes to mind.

“I’ll need a representative from the village.”


End file.
